The Five Stages Of An Illogical Death
by AndInTimeThisTooShallPass
Summary: 'Molly Hooper was going to die soon'. Sometimes, awareness of the end can provoke you to create a new beginning.  ANGST. SADNESS. REDEMPTION. MAYBE EVEN LOVE.
1. Denial  Landslide

**Warning; this is sad. Or at least i'm trying to make it so. Prepare for angst.**

* * *

><p>The walls were a dull shade of mint green. A battered desk was the centrepiece of the room, surrounded by various scans, x rays, and medical equipment. And in this room sat two people. On one side sat an overweight man, his face solemn, his forehead covered in a light sheen of perspiration; the kind of sheen that was always naturally there, as opposed to that from exercise. Opposite him sat a meek woman, with brunette hair that had natural tinges of blonde running through it, wearing a cherry patterned cardigan. Her mouth was slightly ajar, and her eyes fixed on her twiddling fingers resting on her lap. Both wore the long white coats of doctors, though only one was acting like a doctor in that moment.<p>

Inoperable was the key word. The only real word she understood in that moment. It made her feel cold.

'Miss Hooper, the aneurysm is inoperable'.

Inoperable. What a horrible word. She rejected it. It was wrong, Dr Stamford was wrong, as was his pity. She was only twenty eight. She had never smoked in her life, okay maybe one time when she was sixteen, but she was certain one peer pressure related smoking experience wouldn't cause that. She ate healthily, and always took the stairs instead of the elevator. This had to be a mistake. She'd only had the CAT scan to check her vision, which had been weaker than usual lately. She didn't have a aneurysm, this was just a clerical error. She just had bad eyesight, like her nan. This was a mistake.

Molly wasn't sure how long she just sat there silently, not that it mattered, Dr Stamford was talking enough for the both of them, though she didn't listen. She didn't need to know this, it was a mistake.

He was explaining how someone else's aneurysm was big, and how surgery would more likely than not, cause a premature rapture, though it was someone else's prerogative if they wanted to go down the surgery route. He explained various statistics and how they could relate to someone else's aneurysm.

It wasn't her aneurysm. That wouldn't make sense.

And so she told him all this, how there must have been a mix up. She begged him to check the results again, check for any mix ups, ignoring him when he said he was one hundred percent sure they were hers. And finally with a pitiful smile he agreed. Dr Stamford's agreement seemed to solidify her belief, though she pointedly ignored him when he said a mistake was highly unlikely. It was a mistake. She refused the entertain the possibility she was dying.

It made no sense logically.

Molly relished being back in the morgue, despite having only been gone for an hour. It was her domain. She knew how everything worked. Flukes rarely happened here; a corpse wasn't likely to come back life. _That_ had only happened, and that had been the day Sherlock Holmes had died. Her breath caught even thinking about that day four years ago. She still remembered his pale naked body waking from inside the body bag, a prop for the charade. She had thought about that naked body many times since. She remembered him getting dressed hastily, while she covered her eyes with her hands... reluctantly. He thanked her profusely for her help, barely letting her get a word in edge ways. His eyes had remained distant, as if in deep, impenetrable thought, though he had asked various questions, like how had John reacted? Was the autopsy complete? Did anyone suspect? He had put on a hoody and jeans as a disguise, and she had to admit he looked completely different. More youthful, yet disturbingly broken, as if shedding his usual attire was the final straw. The final remnant of the consultant detective, Sherlock Holmes, gone. He was still attractive though of course. And then he'd just left, off to some car waiting for him. She still regretted that she hadn't said something more...meaningful. She hadn't really said anything at all to be honest. He'd just given her a smile, and left. For all she had known at the time, it could have been the last time she ever saw him.

Luckily it hadn't been. He'd returned a year ago. He hadn't even told her he was returning. She'd just woken up one morning with his face plastered on every form of media possible; Genius successfully faked death. For weeks she could barely walk into a newsagents without seeing his face on the papers, chronicling his arrest, his pardon, his return to crime deduction. It made her nervous. And in all that time he never came to see her once. That had hurt, though Molly knew she shouldn't have expected anything to be different. Thankfully Sherlock had covered for her, claiming he had fooled her too as opposed to her being her accomplice. Everyone believed that quickly, much to Molly's combined annoyance and relief. A month after that he had finally come into the morgue, John accompanying him (looking marginally happier than he had in recent years). Sherlock had given her a grave nod of reverence, which she'd returned. Their shared lie was to remain a secret. And then everything had returned to exactly how it had been. Unfortunately Molly couldn't help but think.

Molly shook her head, shaking the memories away. She had resolved a while ago to stop thinking of Sherlock so often. It was a waste of time. A new small malevolent voice in her head whispered that she had very little time to waste. She shook her head harder.

She didn't have a aneurysm.

'What the hell are you doing Molly?' asked a curious voice from the door. Molly looked up, blushing.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, her mum had always said.

Sherlock stared back at her expectantly. His dark hair was it's usual perfectly chaotic mass of curls, contrasting curiously with his pale skin. He was wearing his usual long coat, which made him always appear slightly superior in a way she couldn't explain. Normally she would have gave a nervous giggle, and stammer an inaudible explanation., but her brain was too busy arguing with itself to acknowledge Sherlock with her normal awe.

'Nothing' she replied, suddenly tired. 'Was there anything you wanted?' she asked politely, turning from him.

She didn't notice the curious look on his face deepen.

'Just use of the lab' he answered slowly. She just waved a hand, indicating for him to go ahead.

His eyes remained fixed on her as she sat, mentally trying to stop herself from making a will. It was a mistake she repeated. It was dangerously close to becoming her new mantra. In an attempt to distract herself, she attempted a conversation with Sherlock, her distracted mind taking the edge off her usual nerves around him.

'No John today?' she asked with a smile, that faltered only slightly when she looked up to see him already staring at her. He didn't even blanch at being caught Molly noted.

'No, he's on a date' he said, clearly bored by the topic 'Molly why have you got that look on your face?'.

'W..what look?' she asked, her belated nerves finally kicking in.

'That look' he repeated, his eyes solemn, though no longer directed at her, but into a microscope.

Oh.

That look.

Their look.

How pathetic that the only things she shared with him was an ability to recognise the face of a dying person and lies. It was also probably pathetic that the fact they had a shared anything, no matter how morbid, made her do an inward dance.

But she wasn't dying, it was a mistake. Maybe she'd sue whoever was to blame for this mix up, she thought idly, not really meaning it.

'I..I think you're seeing things Sherlock' she replied with an almost too bright smile. He just raised an eyebrow, blinking purposely slowly, before continuing with his work.

Molly was trying to be patient, she really was, but she just couldn't seem to stop biting her nails. It was a childhood habit she had thought she'd grown out of. Evidently not. Her body was betraying her thoughts. How long did it take to verify some results for goodness sakes? A full twenty four hours had passed, surely they had some kind of information for her?

Molly was sat at her desk, filling in some long neglected paperwork, while her ipod played some soothing music, a luxury she rarely used at work. She always felt self conscious about her taste in music, which varied from Bob Dylan to the Spice Girls. Today she couldn't find the energy to care. Besides she had so few visitors, and the ones she did have were usually dead. Hours passed, and she was considering just going straight to Dr Stamford, demanding some kind of confirmation, when Sherlock arrived, again without John. And he was looking at her expectantly. She felt immediately on edge. And a tiny bit excited.

'Sherlock?' she asked warily.

'Molly, why do you have that look?' he asked slowly, as if deliberating to himself even as he asked, instinctively stepping closer to her, crouching down a little to examine her eyes. But she knew it wasn't a rhetorical question. Molly forgot to breathe for a moment. Sherlock always looked so attractive when deducting.

'I..i don't-'

'Molly, you're avoiding eye contact, whilst looking left, indicating you're lying obviously, so I know you know exactly what I mean' he said as if talking to a rebellious child. It irked her a little, though she couldn't help but be impressed. Like she always was.

'S...Sherlock, I still don't-'

'You've got blood shot eyes, newly bitten nails, and you're paler than usual. Don't lie to me. Why are you scared?' his eyes were almost angry, his voice impatient. She said nothing, she couldn't think of anything to say, she just gulped. His face softened so imperceptibly it took her a moment to notice. Molly gave a loud sigh, blushing immediately after. She finally met his eyes. They were stoic as ever.

'Why didn't you tell me you were coming back?' she asked thoughtlessly, before bringing her hand to her mouth in chagrin. Why had she said that? She internally berated herself. Sherlock looked faintly surprised, and confused. Oh God thought Molly. She attempted to rectify the situation.

'Oh, gosh, i'm so sorry, that was rude, I..i was just... ignore me, I shouldn't-' Molly stammered ridiculously, blushing furiously.

'Molly, stop talking' he said, a small hint of amusement on his face. Molly shut up immediately.

'I thought I had implicated you enough in my death, to turn up on your doorstep would have surely have gained you unwanted police attention' he said, as though that were obvious, his eyes narrowed,

questioning how she could have missed that. She blushed, avoiding his gaze. Out of all the answers she had expected (which varied between the nasty and the embarrassing) she had never expected an answer so considerate. The shock must have registered on her face, because his own suddenly turned neutral, and he leaned away from her slightly.

'You count' he said with a shrug, as if it were all the explanation, and apology, needed, though he appeared clearly uncomfortable at the admission. Molly smiled brightly for a moment, the weight of the past day lifting. And then it returned as Sherlock got up. His eyes scanned her mechanically again; she shuddered a little under his gaze.

'I'll return the favour when you're ready' Sherlock said deliberately. Molly frowned. What? But before she could ask he was already gone.

Stamford had caught up with her as she was leaving for the day, her nerves severely frazzled, her eyes unfocused and her gait slow.

She'd known the second she saw his face.

The overt sympathy.

Was that how she had looked at Sherlock? It was incredibly condescending. It made her inexplicably angry at him. She didn't need his pity, she needed his words to counter his face.

They didn't.

She was dying.

Molly Hooper was going to die soon.


	2. Anger  Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

She shouldn't be doing this; writing a will at twenty eight. It didn't feel right. It didn't even feel logical. But it was happening.

It had been two days since Dr Stamford had confirmed her diagnosis. It had, coincidentally, been two days since she had really slept. She had been in an alarming state of alertness since that moment. Molly hadn't cried or collapsed. In fact she hadn't shown any real sign of distress, except for a sudden hoarseness of her voice. She had thanked him for double checking, surreally calm. And then she'd gone into planning mode; immediately calling her underused lawyer to discuss her minimal assets and her will. It wasn't that she wasn't upset, it was just that a primal need for organisation had overridden it.

For now.

Molly was sitting in the kitchen/living room, at the yellow kitchen table in her small flat, a small lamp her only source light. Her eyes were intense, as were the movements of her pen. Writing the first draft of her will. It wasn't that Molly had a lot of money; she was the daughter of a mechanic, so she didn't come from money, and her university debt, bills and general need of necessities had left very little room to save money. Despite this, Molly didn't want her belongings thrown away when she was... Gone. She loved her possessions, and wanted them looked after, the most important being her temperamental pitch black cat Toby. She had managed to secure him a home through an awkward with her distant cousin Annie, who had graciously and wholeheartedly agreed to look after him when it was time. Annie had even offered to come up and visit, though Molly declined, requesting to be alone. Molly wasn't sure why she had rejected Annie's offer. Maybe it was in reaction to Annie's health.

Simple jealousy.

When Molly was thirteen, and Annie fifteen, Annie's parents had divorced. Annie hadn't taken it well, and had begun a full scale rebellion; drink, smoking (a habit she still had today) and drugs. This had all culminated in her having her stomach pumped after collapsing one night. And yet Annie was a picture of health. And as much as Molly wanted to deny it, she resented that. It wasn't fair. Molly had never done drugs, rarely drunk, and her only experience with cigarettes had been a fumbling affair in a local park at sixteen with her best friend, which had led to her having a scary coughing fit, and swearing to never do it again. Again, it didn't seem fair. Not that she wanted Annie to take her place, it was just... Upsetting.

Molly had had plans. And expectations, one of them being that she'd die an old lady. Molly had hoped to die, relatively old, surrounded by a large family.

A sharp pain hit her in the chest.

She'd never have children.

That hurt. A lot.

A strange sense of loss overcame Molly, threatening to make her cry. Dropping her pen, she closed her eyes determinedly, her hands unconsciously balling into fists. "You can't miss what you never had" she whispered to herself, her tone not unlike a parent scolding a child. Molly had always wanted babies. While most of her ventures into babysitting had ended in disaster or manipulation at the hands of a two year old, it hadn't put her off. She'd come from an incomplete family, her mother dying when she was seven. Ovarian cancer. Her father never really moved on, he always seemed in a perpetual state of mild surprise. He had still been the best dad in the whole world; no one tried harder than him. It was just he had been a little out of his depth when it came to women, as she had realised when she'd had her first period. She missed him so much. Her hands balled slighter tighter. Her childhood had been a little lonely, being an only child. She'd always vowed to have loads of children. They'd never be lonely. Molly had even picked out their names; Christopher for a boy, after her dad, and Rebecca for a girl. They could've moved by the sea, like she wanted as a girl. The beach made her happy. Sometimes she dreamt Sherlock was with them, unlikely as it was.

She would have loved them so very much.

But they didn't exist, not would they ever.

Another pain hit, stunning her.

At that moment Toby sauntered over, rubbing his head against her leg, his covert signal for "Feed me". Happy to be distracted, Molly smile indulgently at him. "Are you hungry Toby?" she asked in a voice unlike her own. She got up, and got his biscuits out of the cupboard, only to accidentally bang her elbow on the side, triggering pain from her funny bone. The motion unlocked something in Molly. A foreign rage clouded her mind. Why did everything bad happen to her! Without thinking she threw the box at the wall, splaying the floor with biscuits.

Molly regained control. Her eyes widened in shock, her hands shaking.

Molly wasn't violent.

What was happening to her?

Toby idly licked at a biscuit dislodged in the sofa cushions.

…...

Molly knew he meant well. But to be honest he was annoying her. Dr Stamford had cornered her the next day, suggesting that maybe she took some time off. It irked her. Why did everyone always assume she was weak? Molly interrupted his well meaning speech.

"I need the money"

"Paid leave" he countered with a warm smile. Molly wanted to punch him. She scolded herself, telling herself that no she didn't.

"I prefer to work Dr Stamford" she replied, the epitome of shy politeness.

He didn't attempt to argue. He did however sigh in a way Molly found patronising, and asked her to inform him if she changed her mind. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. She hated to be rude, but she really felt fine.

"No you don't" taunted the new malevolent voice.

She pretended not to hear it.

…...

Molly's lack of sleep was finally catching up with her; she had been vaguely drowsy throughout the morning so by mid afternoon she was doing all she could to not fall asleep on top of her pile of long neglected paperwork. Molly was attempting to catch up on her research; a study into the decomposition rates of frozen skin cells. It wasn't particularly new or ground breaking, but it had been a good distraction for a while. Now it seemed pointless, a chore. It wouldn't provoke celebration or change. She couldn't help but think that she should have used the time on something more prestigious. Searching for any kind of pick me up, she leant over to get her now lukewarm cup of tea. But her eyes were tired. In her reach, she accidentally nudged one of the glasses in front of her. It rolled pathetically and then hit the floor with a small crash. Molly froze. And then sighed. Couldn't one thing go right or without damage?

She angrily knelt down, beginning to sweep up the shards in her hand, when one pierced through her trousers, eliciting a hiss from Molly. She stood up quickly, instinctively checking the source of the stinging. It was bleeding. Naturally. Typical, thought Molly. Bloody typical. Without thinking, she brought her foot down, stamping on the shards. And again. And again. But it wasn't enough. She reached for another glass, and threw it as hard as she could at the floor. Tears of frustration filled her eyes, and slid down her cheeks without her noticing. It's shattering symbolising her wasted time, wasted life. Within minutes all the test tube glasses were destroyed, and all that remained was a glass covered floor. Molly blinked, as her once rage clouded eyes became clear. She surveyed the damage in horror. Tears still rolled down her cheeks but she had yet to realise. In somewhat of a daze, she knelt down, this time not feeling any pain. Her hands feverishly attempted to clean the shards, as she cried.

Sherlock and John had, of course, chosen that moment to enter the room, their banter falling silent at the sight of Molly.

"My God, Molly are you okay?" said John, his furrowed eyes scanning the room, and then, belatedly, her face. He ran over and crouched beside her, though he didn't touch her. Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the ground, cataloguing every shard it seemed. Molly felt her face freeze in surprise and mortification. Oh no. She attempted to explain.

"I... Oh, er" Molly stuttered off pathetically.

"Molly, what happened?" asked John gently, his face surveying the damage for emphasis. Molly felt herself blush. She just looked down.

"Molly?" prompted John, his voice fraught with concern. Molly vaguely noted that Sherlock had yet to move or speak; it made her nervous. Molly had meant to reply that it had been an accident, but her impulses took over.

"It just... It isn't fair!" she spat out venomously, expelling further rage. She then threw her hand up to her mouth, shocked at her tone. Sherlock's head snapped to hers suddenly. This wasn't her. Why did she feel so mean? Molly finally became aware of her tears, tears of sadness now joining the angry. She sniffed a little.

"What isn't Molly?" asked John softly, though she could hear his caution. It made her want to cry even harder. "I'm dying" Molly wailed desperately.

"What? Molly i don't-"

"I'm just gonna die and its not fair! I haven't done anything wrong."

Molly was in silent hysterics, having pulled her knees under her chin, hugging them tightly.

"Mol-"

"Why don't you go get Molly a cup of tea?" said Sherlock authoritatively, though his face was impassive. John turned his gaze to Sherlock looking mildly annoyed.

"Sherlock, i don't think-"

"Milk, two sugars, right Molly"

Molly said nothing, too immersed in her thoughts.

What if there was a God? She hadn't exactly been virtuous. She was stirred from her panic by the sound of the door closing, and Sherlock kneeling in front of her, not touching her. She wished he would. He looked at her expectantly.

"Aneurysm, Dr Stanford said I have a cerebral aneurysm. And its big." Molly said, trying to be wry, though her voice broke at the word big. She sniffed again, wiping at her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan. The word, aneurysm, felt like a weight on her shoulders. She could feel herself, her heart, breaking.

"No hope of surgery then" spoke Sherlock softly, not really asking a question though Molly nodded an answer. "A time bomb" muttered Sherlock unthinkingly, causing Molly to take a sharp breath. She felt light-headed. She could die right now. In the shower. At the bus stop. Alone in her flat, where no one would find her for days. She would die alone. Her heart ached at the prospect, while her mind filled with sudden fear. What if no one ever found her?

Sherlock realised his mistake. He looked at her gravely.

"Forgive me for my tactlessness. I truly wish you didn't know how this feels" he said apologetically, his eyes gazing off. Thinking of the time he was a time bomb.

They rarely spoke about the Moriarty situation, and if they did Sherlock waved it off dismissively. But there had been a time that Sherlock had thought he would die. He'd told her so. He understood this feeling. He had waited, like she was. Waited for death. The fear, the need to reject it. The only difference was he had a get out clause. She didn't. And in that moment she hated him for it. She shook her head, attempting to shake the frustration away. Molly looked at Sherlock.

"How did it feel?" Sherlock didn't react to her question, though he answered it, his eyes gazing at something she couldn't see.

"Heavy" She understood that. It wasn't as if there was a prominent emotion, she felt so many things it was hard to pick one. She felt heavy from all the emotions more than anything; as if they had a physical weight. Molly felt weighed down.

"Yeah, that feels right" she whispered.

"I am sorry Molly. It's not right." Sherlock met her eyes, his own conveying his words conviction. A small inconsequential warmth settled in her stomach; not a new feeling around Sherlock, but it reminded her of pre aneurysm Molly. So she had to ruin it.

"You put yourself in danger everyday" she said without inflection. She mentally scolded herself when she noticed Sherlock's guilty expression. But she couldn't help but think it wasn't fair.

"You're right" he said, replying to her thought.

Of course he knew. She blushed. Shrugging, Molly attempted a smile.

"Well I'm glad you live every time" she said in what was meant to be a blasé tone, but came out embarrassingly intense. Sherlock's eyebrows rose, though he didn't look particularly surprised. He looked oddly... touched. He just stared at Molly for a moment, not deducing, just looking. When he finally spoke his voice was hoarse.

"Thank you.'

God she still wanted him. It seemed miraculous to her that she would still feel that; that it would still be palpable through her anger, her devastation. In a way she wished it hadn't. It would only make it harder.

At that moment John entered the room, a tea in one hand, with a bashful Stamford trailing behind him.

Oh no.


	3. Bargaining Please Please Please

Molly knew that she was only four sessions in, but she thought she would have felt different by now. It had been two weeks since her... episode. In that time, Dr Stamford had arranged a psychiatrist for Molly, much to her chagrin. She was to go see Dr Brand, a woman in her late forties with curiously kind eyes, twice a week. And Molly hated it.

Despite being well learned in medicine, her fathers disdain for "quacks" as a child had instilled the idea in her that therapists and psychiatrists alike were only for mentally ill people.

Molly hated the implication.

She understood why Stamford had done it; the look of shock on his face when he'd realised the crying girl was Molly said it all. He'd immediately started running around like a headless chicken, asking if she was alright over twenty four times (Sherlock had counted). John had finally calmed him down. Stamford had then informed her he would get her "help" first thing Monday. Luckily for Stamford all of Molly's rage was dissipated otherwise it would have surely turned into a screaming match. She had just shrugged.

First thing Monday a letter was in her mail slot, carrying the time for her first session that very evening. Dr Brand had explained what Molly was going through; the five stages of grief. Dr Brand had explained in their very first session how Molly was grieving her own death to come, which confused Molly a little in a way she couldn't explain nor felt comfortable questioning. She had already gone through denial and anger, and was probably already at bargaining according to Dr Brand. Molly was sure she had bypassed all these and was at the fourth stage, depression. She seemed to have a constant sense of wariness now, permanently tired. Dr Brand had said that was stress but Molly was sure that it was a symptom of depression. In an odd way she hoped she was right; depression led to acceptance, which surely had to feel better than this?

Despite now having the "help" she needed, everyone still felt the need to check up on her. Annie had called numerous times, John had text her a few times, and Dr Stamford even dropped in now and then. Even Sherlock had checked up on her. At least Molly thought he did. She had been in the newly cleaned lab when Sherlock had walked in. He didn't say a word, he just looked at her and then the room. Deducting. His eyes were doing that funny quick movement thing. And then with a much too bright to be real smile he bid Molly goodbye and just walked back out. He must've been there all of ten seconds. She hadn't even said hello. It unnerved Molly a lot. It had been a few years since Sherlock had told her she counted, and seeing evidence of it nearly four years on was both flattering and disorientating.

If only she counted in the way she wanted, but Molly supposed it was better to be counted platonically by Sherlock than not counted at all.

Dr Brand agreed with her.

...

It had been her mothers. A wedding gift from her parents. Her dad had given it to her when she turned 13. A thick gold cross on a chain. Molly hadn't thought much of it then; she wasn't religious, nor did she wear jewellery often. Maybe if it was a special occasion. It was still in its case in Molly's pink jewellery box. It seemed to hold a new fervour now. Picking it up gingerly, Molly undid the clasp, redoing it once it was around her neck. She pulled her hair out from under it and looked in the mirror.

She didn't think anything at all.

Dr Brand had suggested a bucket list. Apparently it would help her gain a sense of fulfilment, so that acceptance would be easier. Probably so that it didn't feel like a waste of a life, Molly guessed. She'd complete it and then she'd die.

Why did they call it a "bucket list"? Maybe it means collecting things, things to do, and putting them together in a metaphorical bucket? Molly shook her head. Maybe not. Surprisingly it was actually quite hard to think of things.

Molly sat in the lab, working on her list. It was quiet, as seemed to be the new status quo. Her episode in the room previously had somehow made its way around the hospital, much to Molly's chagrin. At first everyone seemed to want to give their condolences, people she'd never even spoken to before came up to her, telling her how unfair it was as if she didn't know. As if she were already dead. Molly had just smiled politely, thanking them, though a small part if her thought that if they really cared, surely they would've been friends before the diagnosis. It all felt a bit condescending really, though she didn't show it. Finally, once the shine had worn off, people had started avoiding her as usual though this time it was not from indifference, but almost as if she were too tragic to be near. Too full of sadness. Molly couldn't help but wish she could avoid herself too.

She stopped chewing her pen for a moment to look at her list again.

-get a tattoo

-cut hair short

-watch all the harry potters in one sitting

-watch a full sunset and sunrise

-do a marathon

-go to Paris/ Vienna/ Australia and live the culture

Okay, it wasn't the most innovative list but it was all Molly could think of. Except one more, though she didn't dare put it to paper in case the person concerned could tell she'd written it from the colour of her nails or something else as ridiculously impressive.

Kiss Sherlock Holmes.

She blushed even thinking it. Molly knew it would never happen; She'd never met anyone so obviously asexual. No, thought Molly. No that wasn't true. She remembered the dead woman from some Christmases ago. Molly remembered the slight consternation she'd felt as she watched Sherlock recognise the faceless woman from her body. Her naked body, with breasts and... other bits. Molly shuddered. Thinking of Sherlock in even a remotely sexual situation, with another woman, felt wrong. Not in her eyes, but for him, as if it would be distasteful to him personally. But then again she didn't know much about Sherlock's dating life. The very idea made her laugh.

'What's so funny?'

Molly jumped and turned quickly. She smiled warmly. Speak of the devil.

'O..oh hi Sherlock, how are you?'

'Fine. What's so funny?' he asked again, stepping into the room, idly picking up some of the papers on her desk. Sherlock didn't look at her, though he stepped closer to her, eyes on the papers.

'Erm... just remembering a joke' she said avoiding his eyes. He finally looked up at her, raising a disbelieving eyebrow, making Molly blush. He said nothing. His eyes roamed over her, deducting. They lingered over her necklace for a moment, though she couldn't tell what he was thinking. She willed herself to not hide it; he didn't understand. It helped. If there was a God now was a good time to get him on side. Maybe it would give her extra months.

Moving sharply, Sherlock's eyes finally rested onto the table side.

Oh God.

She reached out instinctively for the list but it was too late. That attractive look of bemusement crossed his face, both annoying and warming Molly. She hated herself for the embarrassment she felt. An awkward silence stretched out. Finally Sherlock spoke.

'Tattoo?' he asked. Molly thought she could hear condescension in his tone. She blushed.

'Yeah, well you know' – she smiled at his impassive face. Maybe not then- 'I've always wanted one but I was too scared.' she explained.

'Of what?' he asked, sitting down finally. Molly did the same subconsciously.

'I..i was thinking a daisy, maybe. On my wrist. It was my mothers name' she tapered off at the disinterested look on his face. He didn't do sentiment.

She wished she didn't.

There were some pros to being emotionally numb.

Sherlock's voice interrupted her pessimistic thoughts.

'Well come on then'

Molly turned quickly to Sherlock. He had gotten up now, and was straightening his coat as he spoke. He was typing furiously on his phone.

'W..wha?' stuttered Molly confused. 'Come on where?'

'To get your tattoo of course, do keep up. And I thought today would be boring, John sent me by the way. He seems to think you'll kill yourself' Sherlock said in his usual superior tone, already walking out the door. Molly just stood stunned on the spot.

'Molly!' called Sherlock.

Grabbing her coat, she ran after him.

...

The tattooist owed Sherlock a favour. His name was Damien, and he was a forty plus overweight man, with a tattoo of a jester on his skull. Molly had absolutely no idea how he knew Sherlock, but from the shocked way he reacted to Sherlock, it obviously wasn't socially. Making Molly wait in the reception area, Sherlock had gone and spoken to Damien in his little room. Ten minutes later, Molly had picked out a design from a book, and was very shakily sitting in a chair, while Damien went to get some kind of specific ink.

Molly was nervous. Her leg bounced erratically and her eyes scanned the various photo's of tattoo's around her. Sherlock sighed.

'Molly if you want to go-'

'No! I want to do it' she said honestly. She was just a little scared. What if it hurt too much? What if she wimped out? That would be embarrassing. But Molly was also excited in a weird way. God, why were all her emotions so conflicting these days?

'You must have loved your mother greatly' said Sherlock, dryly flipping through a book of designs. Molly shrugged , and chewed on her bottom lip lightly.

'Of course. Well, I mean she died when I was seven so I don't really remember but... you know'.

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

'How do you miss someone you don't remember?' he asked, not patronizingly but with genuine wonder. Molly spoke instinctively, forgetting her surroundings for a moment.

'I do remember her. It's a bit vague, but I had chicken pox when I was five. I..i. Remember crying. And she was putting that cream on my spots with one hand, and using the other to play that slapping game, you know what I mean?-' Sherlock nodded - '' to stop me itching. Apparently I was besotted with her. I might not remember but feelings linger I suppose'

And it was true. She remembered her mum's hair most, the same colour as hers. The sudden anxiety Molly had been feeling was gone. Replaced with the all to familiar sadness. Her mum must have felt like this, when she was dying. Her mum had felt this sadness, this desperation. The waiting. She pushed it away. Sherlock was staring at her, an odd conflict on his face. Maybe he was thinking about his own mother.

'Is your-'

'She's dead' he said inflectionless, breaking his gaze from Molly to look back at the book.

'I'm sorry' said Molly quietly. She truly was.

'Why? It wasn't your fault' he said as if talking to a child.

'N..no I mean, I'm sorry you were in pain' she said quietly. Not even Sherlock could not feel pain at his mothers passing. It just wasn't possible.

Sherlock looked back up at her again as Damien came into the room, carrying a selection of coloured jars. The anxiety returned full force. She said nothing as Damien drew an outline in pen on her wrist.

Oh God oh God oh God oh God.

He connected the needle up, which promptly started whirring. He brought it down to her skin, and then, slowly, they connected.

Molly didn't feel Sherlock holding her hand until much later, nor did she hear him whisper 'you too.'

...

It was small. It was raised a little. And it was bleeding a fair bit. But she loved it. Molly was beaming ridiculously. It looked perfect.

It had hurt. A lot. It felt exactly as it was; a needle being dragged across her skin. She was vaguely embarrassed by how much noise she'd made when he did the outline. It had been the only way to stop herself pulling her wrist from him. Oddly enough it didn't hurt afterwards; except when she touched it, but even that wasn't too bad. If anything she wanted another. She must have seemed insane to Sherlock. He did keep giving her odd glances, but she was just too happy to care. She revelled in it, in feeling something that wasn't anger or sadness or anything else just a horrible.

'Right, Harry Potter next?' said Sherlock, the look of conflict leaving his face finally.

Molly's blood ran cold.

'No!' she cried a little too loudly, earning the stares of the passer-bys. Sherlock looked at her, perplexed.

'Why ever not? It was on your list'

'Y...yes but'

'Do you want to watch them?'

'Yes, but'

'I don't understand' he said angrily, his eyebrows furrowed in real confusion.

Molly blanched and started rubbing her hands nervously. He wouldn't get it. Why couldn't he just let her be happy for two minutes?

'It's stupid'. Molly attempted to be wry though her lack of eye contact gave her away.

'Most things people say invariably are' said Sherlock dryly before softening a little. 'Please'.

Molly sighed.

'I don't-'

'Your tattoo looks really nice by the way' said Sherlock with false warmth barely concealing his curiosity. With another sigh she answered begrudgingly. It worked every time and she knew it.

'It's just... what will I live for if I finish the list? I'll just...d..die. You know'

For a moment the silence was deafening. The light atmosphere tensed a little.

'It won't keep you alive Molly.' said Sherlock unusually quiet.

'You don't know everything!' yelled Molly, genuine pain hitting her at his words.

Why did he have to spoil it? She'd been coping so well, yet he always seemed to make her come undone. Every emotion she'd managed to hold off flooded her. The heavy feeling came back. She wanted it gone. She wanted to believe she could do something. Molly didn't want to wait and die.

If other people put their faith in religion, why couldn't she? Why couldn't she have her comforting belief? Miracles happened everyday. Why couldn't she believe them? Why couldn't he?

Why did he have to be right every time?

'I was insensitive, I apologise.' Sherlock spoke, breaking the tension, his voice fraught with sincerity. His eyes sought hers, his apology extended in them. Sorry for being right.

Molly looked up at him, forgiving him as soon as she looked into his eyes.

It wasn't his fault. She was sorry he was right too.

'It's okay. It was stupid anyway' Molly said with a quick humourless smile, the heavy feeling still there, looming over her. She was thoroughly disheartened.

'People believe stupid things when they're scared.'

Molly just smiled again, comforted by his presence, and even his rude words. By Sherlock in all his thoughtless, handsome and caring glory. It was a nice semblance of normality.

And he smiled back.

...

'Call me when you're ready to watch Harry Potter'

'O..oh I .. okay'

With one last smile he left.

...

Text received at 11.47pm

from Sherlock Holmes

John said you could borrow his Harry Potter dvd's if you want.

Goodnight.

...

Molly had dreamed about Sherlock before. And not all the dreams had been exactly PG rated. In her dreams she said and did everything she wanted, everything she desired. And in her dreams he shared those desires. Molly had even had a dream once in which he was the Johnny Castle to her baby. That had been very weird. And oddly satisfying.

This wasn't one of those dreams.

She was at work, an open chest cavity in front of her. Her hands were weighing the body's heart. And then she died; just fell to the floor, foam dripping out of her throat. The scene changed, the room lightened until it was her flat. She was on the bed with Sherlock, his lips at her throat, kissing her, his hands stroking her lovingly. She screamed. But it was as if she were mute. He didn't react to her screaming at all, and against her will, neither did her body. Help me she begged him, tears streaming down her face. And then she slumped. Dead.

Opening her eyes again the room was blue. Hospital blue. Oh no. Sherlock was standing beside her, wild eyed, telling her things she couldn't hear, stroking her hair from her face. Not again. Please no.

'Sherlock, please! Please I'm going to die, stop it!' she screamed to no effect. She looked around the room for anyone to make it stop. To wake her up. Two nurses stood in front of her. In front of her protruding stomach.

'Oh no, please no' Molly sobbed, writhing in agony.

The nurses didn't react to the change, just mouthing words of encouragement. Molly felt a pressure to push, and she couldn't stop it. She pushed, all the while screaming for help; for what at that moment she wasn't sure.

And then there was a baby. The nurses held him up in front of her. He was clean, with a tuft of dark hair, that contrasted with his pale skin. He opened his eyes. Molly's eyes. And they were so alert. She loved him. She just knew it. And she would die in front of him. She would leave him.

Molly screamed again, from anger, frustration, fear.

And then she died.

Molly woke up, breathing heavy, sweating profusely.

'It was just a dream' she told herself, pulling her legs to her chin.

She began to cry quietly as a dark cloud descended.


	4. Depression Shake It Out

warning; this chapter is a bit heavy. At least it felt like it when I was writing it, so maybe i'm biased.

And can i just say a huge thank you to the reviewers, your reviews are so nice and constructive, they genuinely brighten my day. I'm even starting to recognise names and people who review consistently, though please don't feel obligated to review.

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><p>Dr Brand said the dream had just been a manifestation of her fears, but that in no way meant it would happen.<p>

"So I won't just drop down dead?" had countered Molly warily.

Dr Brand didn't answer that.

Molly didn't attend their next session

...

'Are you sure you want so much cut off' asked the voice of a wary tall skinny male, a look of apprehension on his face.

The female sat in front of him nodded unseeingly.

He cut the first strand. He was finished within forty minutes, her wispy hair covering the floor. Her reached just below her shoulders. It hadn't been this short ever; her father had always loved her long hair, which had been so much like her mothers. She liked it. It was odd, but in a good way.

Yet it hadn't got rid of the feeling. She was sure it would.

She turned to Craig the hairdressers.

'Thank you' she said meekly. He frowned subtly.

'Do you like it?' he asked. She just nodded.

Craig noted a weird look of lost expectation on her face. Whatever she had been expecting, this wasn't it.

...

Molly's phone was ringing. She didn't even look at it. She had been doing so for four days.

Molly remembered working with those with depression during her rotation during her residency. Technically she knew the symptoms, the signs. Molly knew now she had depression, yet it felt much different than she expected. Its expected nowadays that depression is just being sad, and suicidal. But it feels more complex than that.

Molly felt tired; constantly. She also felt curiously numb, as if everything was so inconsequential to her. Everything seemed to be too much effort, and after all, what was point? She was going to die anyway. In fact, her aneurysm could be triggered by so many things that it was safer to just stay at home, stay in bed. There was also an overwhelming sense of guilt, though this was nothing new.

Molly felt as if she had gained a new clarity, like she knew a secret no one else understood yet. Maybe you had to be dying to know. The pointlessness of life. There was no meaning. We lived, we died. All the things we cherish will die.

It was just biology.

Despite this, Molly still hoped there was a heaven despite being a non believer;anything had to be better than this. There had to be some kind of paradise. Somewhere where life was fair. Maybe thats why people believed in religion? Because they needed to believe the bad would be punished. They needed to believe that murderers, rapists and other sick people who got away with their crimes, would be punished and their maintenance of morality would be rewarded. Fairness. It was doubtful. But if she still had hope at this stage it could only help.

Molly was alone in her flat for the fourth day in a row, having finally taken use of Dr Stamford's offer of paid leave. She was in bed, though not asleep; she just laid there thinking, lamenting. The curtains were closed though it was mid day. Molly was willing herself not to sleep despite feeling unbelievably tired. She had had another dream a couple of days ago. In it, she had been on the tube waiting for a train when she suddenly died. The difference this time was that instead of the scene changing she stayed there, watching as people looked at her warily, then slowly made their way over to her, and finally started screaming. She watched at an unknown vantage point as they tried and failed to do CPR. She'd woken up already crying.

But that was how it would be in a respect; she'd drop and die.

Just to add to her misery, at least in Molly's opinion, Sherlock had begun to text her more frequently; three times in the past four days.

Wednesday 7th 11.12 am

From Sherlock Holmes

You've gone on leave.

Thursday 8th 1.23pm

Your replacement is completely incompetent.

She had replied a quick sorry to that, to which he didn't reply.

Friday 9th 9.43 pm

Dr Brand is looking for you.

She didn't reply. She had also recieved some texts from John, asking how she was, offering help. She appreciated the gesture. They hadn't exactly been friends after all. She'd always been fixated on Sherlock. Yet since he had found her on the floor of the lab that day he had been so good. John was just a naturally good person. She was shallow. She felt guilty for completely side stepping him all these years, all because he wasn't a genius.

She felt guilty in general.

In all honesty, his sudden interest now was more painful than pleasing. She couldn't help but think how ironic it was that he cared now when she was dying; As if her short life expectancy made her interesting. Maybe it did.

He probably wanted to observe her, and make deductions for a study. He always did like to experiment. Yes he had these incredble moments of humanity, where he was kind and conisderate. But he was a scientist to the core. She was just a subject. Subconsciously, she ran a hand over her now scabbing tattoo. He had been so nice when she'd gotten her tattoo. Not normal people nice, but Sherlock's version of nice.

He'd held her hand.

Molly was too absorbed in her lamenting to hear the knock on the door, and even if she had she would have ignored it. Nor did she hear the sound of a bobby pin unlocking her front door.

Molly felt the all too familiar prick of tears, and squeezed her eyes shut instinctively, biting down on her quivering lip against the waves of pain washing over her. Why did every bit of her hurt so much?

'Molly?'

She didn't move, except to sigh deeply. She wondered idly if hallucinations were a symptom of depression too. She wiggled further into the covers.

'Molly, this isn't a hullcination.'

She wondered how he knew she was thinking that. She opened her eyes and looked at the man at the end of her bed. Sherlock. Speak of the devil. Not even a month ago she would have given anything to be in this position, but in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him to go. She wanted to be alone. She did note, however, that he looked oddly frazzled.

'How did you get in?' she asked dully, not at all like herself, as she sat up in the bed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

'This is hardly Fort Knox, even if it does resemble it' he answered dryly.

Molly didn't rise to the bait. She just looked at him, and him at her. Well 'looked' wasn't exactly right. He was deducing her, and she didn't have the energy to care, and he knew it. He was slower than normal, more deliberate; she could tell by his eyes. The second his eyes met hers she stirred.

'You didn't see Dr Brand last night.'

Why did he know everything? Why was he choosing to care?

'Erm Sherlock-'

'You cut your hair. That one less thing off your bucket list.' Sherlock looked mildly impressed. and a little bit... put out?

'S..Sherlock, I'm not well, could you please-'

'You're fine Molly, you're just-'

'Since when has dying been constituted as fine?' she spat vemously. Sherlock didn't react.

'You're not dying. You're just going to die.'

'Same thing' she replied with a shrug tired.

Either way she was waiting for death just like her parents before her. Eyes fixed unseeingly on the wall, Molly's eyes filled with tears again.

Sherlock's face softened uncomfortably.

'This stage is the hardest' he said to her, pulling her back to the present.

Like he knew.

She was one step closer to death. Maybe she shouldn't have cut her hair. The previously quiet malevolant voice in her head told her it wouldn't have made any difference anyway. Why couldn't it be acceptance already she thought, tears spilling down her cheeks. Molly kept her eyes on the wall, though her tears blurred the view. She took a shaky deep breath. Crying in front of Sherlock Holmes. How pathetic. He didn't move, he just stood observing her stoically. He then sighed.

'Molly crying won't help.'

Molly's breathing came out in shallow shots, her hands shaking.

'There is nothing worse than self pity Molly' Sherlock said exasperatedly, before realising his words. He immediately went to apologize but it was too late.

Molly looked at him now, eyes bright , face stained red, tears only slowing a fraction. Her face was angled to the side a little, mouth open in surprise.

'You really don't understand it do you?' she said, voice thick with tears and surprise.

'Mol-'

'You always say such thoughtless things'

'I am-'

'You don't know how this feels!' she cried at him, face contorted, cheeks red, heart broken.

He always acted like he knew everything. But he didn't. She knew that now. She deluded herself with her hero worship.

He hadn't even gotten past bargaining.

No one spoke for a minute, Molly still in a state of shock at her realisation.

'I will pity me. Because no one else will.' she told him numbly. 'I don't have any family left, or any friends.' - her voice hitched a little - 'My mum died when I was little. My dad died before I could even accomplish anything. I have a dead end job thats an embarrassment to even tell people. My first boyfriend dumped me two days after I gave him my virginity. The next one left me. And I have spent the last five years in love with someone who sees me as a resource, even when I risked my career for him.' Sherlock mouth unconsciously opened a little. 'And now i'm going to die, with absolutely no one with me, and without doing half the things I wanted. So, Sherlock Holmes, i will pity me. Because i deserve to be pitied. I wasted years. And it hurts so much. God, I feel so, so guilty about it.' Molly finished, voice breaking, tears streaming down her face, though she made sure to meet him dead on in the eyes.

Sherlock had paled somewhere during her speech. And she liked it. Because she was right, and he would accept it. She didn't even care that she had just admitted to being in love with him. He knew anyway, and had made the conscious decision to never mention it. She knew how he felt.

Yet she hoped desperately he would refute her claims.

Finally he spoke, though his voice was a little hoarse.

'You're life isn't-'

But she couldn't help herself. Now she'd started, Molly had to finish, say it all.

'Yes it is. What can I really do with an anuerysm? Anything could set it off. I can't really live. The second Dr Stamford told me I was dying, I really died. Cause I can't really live. I cant do anything. I can't really love anything. I can't have a baby or do anything I wanted. Its not feasible.' She wiped her nose quickly, and met his eyes again.

'You know they love their mothers unconditionally? Babies i mean. I deserved that kind of love.' Her heart physically ached at her words, her mind filling with now unwanted images of her actually living. A baby, a husband, even Toby.

She could've been happy.

Unadulterated, untainted happy. But she had wasted time. In fact no, she hadn't wasted time. Her time had been taken from her.

She rounded to Sherlock, looking at him sadly. His expression was undistinguishable. She continued as Sherlock seemed to be rooted in silence.

'You don't get it. And I don't know why. Its never bothered me before. But it does now. Because anyone else would let me cry, and let me scream. But you're dead inside, and you know what? I pity you. I PITY YOU!' she screamed at him as loud as she could, the face screwed up in anger.

She waited for him to leave, or for her own embarrassment to kick in with a blush. Neither happened.

Sherlock looked stunned. He closed his eyes for a moment, before looking at Molly regretfully.

'I'm really sorry Molly'

'I know' she said with a grimly.

God she was tired. So very tired. Just because she wanted to, she leaned her head against Sherlock's shoulder, closing her eyes. She could feel his tension, and then, just as she made to get up, she felt his arm stiffly wrap around her.

He was trying. Even after what she had said.

Those incredible moments where he showed his humanity; and it hurt her.

She cried on his shoulder until she fell asleep.

...

It was early in the morning, she could tell from the grey light streaming through her curtains. Her face felt tight, almost swollen. A side effect from the tears. And then she remembered. Molly sat up quickly, searching. But he was gone.


	5. Acceptance Better Days

sorry for the wait, this was a bit hard to write. It never felt good enough, and tbh still doesn't but alas its all i could do. I think I identified too closely with the depression aspect than the acceptance, and so this was a bit out of my comfort zone. And no, this isn't the end yet, though it's close. And thank you to the alerters and reviewers; you make me actually bother to proof read, albeit lazily :)

* * *

><p>She needed a shower. Badly. With one last full body stretch, Molly got up lethargically, and went to have a shower. The whole time an awful feeling seemed to root itself deep with each thought. A feeling of embarrassment. She replayed all the things she had said in her mind. Every mean, unjustified comment, both at herself and at Sherlock.<p>

Yet more to feel guilty about. She needed to apologise.

It felt as though everything from the past weeks had been built up for last night. Every feeling, every thing Molly had repressed just found an outlet.

She wasn't completely sure she hadn't meant what she said.

Either way she shouldn't have said them.

With a downtrodden sigh she got out of the shower and quickly got dressed, leaving her wet hair in a ponytail. For one mad moment she considered putting on some make up, before dismissing it. He had seen her at her very worst last night; a couple of coats of mascara couldn't change how he saw her now. Even if it would make her face look less puffy.

No.

Molly was just grabbing her keys when there was a knock on the door, startling her. Sherlock's knock. Oh no. Panic rose in her chest.

'Molly open the door' he called through the letter, sounding slightly annoyed. Molly briskly walked to the door, completely apprehensive. Opening it she saw he was angry; his face was too passive, and a slight pout puckered his lips. Without a word he thrust a bunch of papers into her unprepared hands, which promptly let them slip through.

'Oh... jus-' Molly instinctively knelt down to pick them up.

She didn't see him leave.

…...

Pages and pages of research. On aneurysms. Everything from life expectancy, to preventative treatments. Case studies had been highlighted, even colour coded. The earliest was dated from the day she had told him she was dying, and the latest was yesterday. He had specifically written the dates on them.

Molly may not have been a consultant detective but even she understood this.

He was showing he cared.

…...

She text him. Three times. Various types of clingy apologies.

He didn't reply.

The guilt was all consuming.

…...

Dr Brand had finally caught up to her a couple of days later. Molly had been laying in bed again, pouring over Sherlock's research again. She couldn't believe she hadn't bothered to do her own; though she knew her own case was futile. It was fascinating, in a morbid way, knowing exactly what was wrong. Her aneurysm was known as a berry aneurysm, and it was on the arterial base of her brain. Apparently the berry like swelling she had was created from weak points present from birth. She had always been susceptible to them. So in a way, she was always going to die young. Born to die.

She was sure Dr Stamford had explained all this though she remembered very little of it; the shock prevented retention she guessed.

Speaking of Dr Stamford, he had actually called this week. She had been asleep so he left a message. He wanted her to come in for a scan, to check on the aneurysm, as part of a new monthly schedule.

She had yet to call him back.

It seemed a little pointless; it's not like it would prevent anything.

Dr Brand had come in the evening, looking a little frustrated. Probably from Molly ignoring her calls. Despite this she had been incredibly warm, asking Molly to attend her next session. Dr Brand had seemed so concerned that Molly had said yes instinctively, just to make her smile. Now, sitting in the room, she had wished she had feigned illness again. The room was full of awkward tension; at least on Molly's part. Dr Brand was just smiling patiently.

'Would you like to talk about what you did last week?'asked Dr Brand.

Oh God.

'I...I erm I was ill' she lied meekly, avoiding Dr Brand's gaze.

If she knew Molly was lying she didn't question it.

'What about when you weren't ill?' Dr Brand asked softly.

Molly shrugged uncomfortably. 'Nothing really'

'Why not?'

'There's nothing I can really do. Not any more I guess'

'In what way?'

Molly hesitated, her mind flashing to her previous conversation with Sherlock. A familiar sense of shame enveloped her.

'I just feel that... there's nothing I can really do. Like, it's too dangerous or not feasible with my aneurysm...'

'There's plenty of things you can do Molly, you shouldn't let it hold you back.'

'I know... I just... ' Molly faded off quietly, not really sure how to explain. God, she just wanted to cry. From frustration or just sadness she didn't know.

The room went quiet again, though this time from contemplation. Finally Dr Brand spoke.

'It is always tragic when a baby dies.' -What? - 'Often the parents break down quickly, develop depression, and can rarely face the prospect of going on. But when I ask if they wish they hadn't gotten pregnant in the first place, do you know what they say?' Molly shook her head warily. Dr Brand's eyes were tinged with sadness. Molly wasn't so sure they were talking about patients.

'They say no. Because while babies rarely do anything extraordinary. But their very existence changes a person. They have an effect. They fill a person with love, compassion, hope. Maybe Molly, you can have an effect?'

Molly sat silently. Dr Brand continued.

'A friend of yours enquired about you the other day. Demanded I make you attend our sessions. He seemed incredibly concerned... if a little rude.'

Molly stilled. She was talking about Sherlock right?

'He was in the papers, a few years ago if I recall. A very aloof man, yet very concerned when he cornered me.' Molly was puzzled. Sherlock had spoken to Dr Brand, about her? After all she had said. Dr Brand smiled.

'Maybe you're already having an effect.'

…...

Just knock on the door. Just do it.

God, she was shaking. She had rehearsed all kinds of speeches for when she got here, though none came to mind now. Before she could back out, she knocked hard on the door of 221B. After a few moments she could hear footsteps. Molly gulped a little. The door opened.

'Molly!' cried the voice of John, before he pulled her in.

'How have you been Molly?' he asked sincerely. He was so nice Molly blushed.

'I'm okay thank you, but erm, is Sherlock here? I need a word.'

An odd knowing look crossed John's face almost smugly. Thankfully he didn't question her.

'He's just upstairs, though he's in an awful mood. And we've run out of milk. I better go...' he said, in an odd conspiratorial tone. Grabbing his coat quietly, he gave her a smile and left. Mildly confused, Molly walked up the stairs. She knew Sherlock knew she was here, he would have known by her knock, and it made her a little uncomfortable. Molly Slowly pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Sherlock was at the table, looking into a microscope. He didn't look up, though he did speak.

'Molly. I am rather busy so can you make this quick.'

Molly blanched a little.

'I ...er... just wanted to apologize. About the other day. I am so sorry, I said mean things, untrue things-'

'You have the excuse of dying Molly, besides' he looked up at her, smiling humourlessly 'I have said my fair share of … "mean" things.'

Well that was true, thought Molly fairly. She still internally cringed at the thought of her too small lips. Sherlock looked back into the microscope.

'Yes but-'

'I trust you are feeling better' he asked over her. That stumped her.

Molly felt vaguely confused. She hadn't really thought about how she felt. Molly hadn't really paid attention to it, she just felt it.

'I feel... a bit better I guess' she answered honestly. She didn't feel as despairing as she had done last week, but there was still a sense of sadness. It would always probably be there.

Sherlock just nodded.

The room grew silent.

'I...i had better g...go. See you later Sherlock' Molly said finally.

Sherlock looked up perplexed.

'You just got here?'

'You're busy, I...I should-'

'Do you want a coffee' he asked in a nondescript tone, though Molly felt nervous at them.

'I. Yes. Okay.'

'Could you make me one too' he asked, a slight smile in his voice.

Resisting the urge to roll her, though happy things were slightly more normal, she made them afternoon coffee.

…...

She'd been too scared to say it to his face. To mention it and watch him revert back. So she text it.

'Thank you for the research.'

_Thank you for caring._

He had replied instantaneously

'You're welcome'

…...

She returned to work, though this time on part time. Molly needed a distraction.

She had really scared herself last week. She had never felt so low, so lifeless, so soul less as she had last week; she didn't want to fall into that again, at least not as bad. She figured working was a good way to get perspective, almost a way to force herself to move forward. Dr Stamford hadn't approved, he kept asking her if she was sure. To prove to him, and herself, she was, she even booked her first scan. That seemed to placate him.

It had taken place a week later, after Dr Stamford pulled some strings. Of course there had been no difference to the aneurysm. It had neither swelled further, nor decreased. It didn't change anything.

At least it hadn't increased.

…...

Molly had had a headache. And for that entire day she had been terrified, waiting to fall and never get back up. She didn't want to risk taking any medication in case it aggravated the aneurysm, so she had waited it out, scared it would set off the aneurysm, or that her anxiety would. It had eventually subsided.

She couldn't deny she had cried herself to sleep that night. The feeling of waiting wasn't gone; it had just been latent for that moment.

If she had died that day she wouldn't have half the stuff she wanted. And so the next day, after visiting Dr Stamford for reassurance, she had resolved to carry on with her bucket list.

…...

'I'll go with you' said the voice on the screen, crying as she spoke.

Molly sniffed lightly, unconsciously bringing up her hand to cover her mouth.

'Why isn't he reacting?' asked Sherlock impatiently, pointing at the ginger man on screen. Molly sighed quietly. Sherlock, John and Molly all sat on the sofa, Molly in the middle in the dark room, the television the only source of light. A bowl of popcorn sat in Molly's lap, though it was seriously diminished by Sherlock continually leaning over and stealing more. The puppy dog eyes he gave Molly each time stopped her complaining.

He had been doing this since the third film; interrupting the moments with questions, or exclamations of derision. It was a little annoying but she understood, they had been watching the films for over fifteen hours.

John wasn't quite so forgiving. Molly guessed the lack of sleep was catching up with him.

'Oh for goodness sakes Sherlock! Shut up' cried John angrily again, clenching and unclenching his hand in annoyance.

'But his best friend is about to die!'

'Yes, but he knows he needs to be strong for Hermione' said Molly quietly as John glowered at Sherlock.

Sherlock just snorted in response.

Molly suppressed a grin. Meeting John's gaze, she rolled her eyes, making him smile.

'Oh now really' cried Sherlock at the screen.

Molly and John just laughed.

Sherlock frowned at them ever so slightly.

…...

Kiss Sherlock Holmes.

It kept replaying in her head.

…...

'I still feel sad'

'That's perfectly normal' replied Dr Brand. Molly continued.

'But I don't feel mad. I'd rather it weren't happening obviously, but … I can cope with it. Happening.'

'That's good Molly.'

'I. I think I needed to feel... like I did. It was a wake up call. I don't want to waste what time I have left being upset. It's too... draining.'

Dr Brand smiled warmly, creasing her eyes as she did.

'I'm glad you think so Molly.'

…...

Sherlock Holmes is impressive.

Everything about him just screams superiority. Usually himself. People often react in two ways to superiority; hero worship or jealousy. Molly had met two detectives once, whose names she couldn't recall. One had been a sallow faced man, and the other a dark skinned angry looking woman. He had come to collect some forensic evidence, and she had tagged along. Molly remembered how they had spoken about Sherlock. Hating him. Calling him a freak, suggesting how the body there had probably been his victim. She hadn't said anything; she was too shy and afraid of conflict. But she had sat, appalled and slightly confused. It made no sense to her, how they couldn't see him as she did. As the genius he was. Yes, Sherlock was rude, but his actions and his genius surely made up for that?

Society today has been conditioned to want to be part of the crowd, to fit in. Molly herself was guilty of that. So when someone, who is so much more than that is exposed people react differently. Jealousy or idolisation. Either way it was rooted about wanting to be different but being too scared. And Sherlock was that.

He was more impressive than her, more comfortable than herself in who he was. The idea of him being her equal seemed foreign to her, even now as she wrote out the text. But if Aphrodite could fall for a human (thank you year four history class), then maybe Sherlock Holmes would consider a date with an average person. Not that she was an Adonis, but still.

She needed to at least try, even if she horribly embarrassed herself.

She didn't want to die with too many regrets that could have been easily remedied.

Text sent to Sherlock Holmes

6.45pm Thursday 15th

Would you like to go out on a date with me?


	6. 1 to 3 Frozen Part One

This is one of two chapters what will provide the story so far from Sherlock's POV, to give you guys an idea of his psyche before his answer is revealed, so yeah... enjoy.

Oh and on a random note i watched My Fair Lady, and Higgins and Eliza's interactions really reminded me of Molly and Sherlock; there's probably a fic in that

* * *

><p>Part one<p>

Denial

He had only gone to the lab to use the x ray machine.

He had only meant to ask her permission to be courteous, not out of any particular desire to see her.

If it had been strained between Sherlock and Molly since he had returned, and for some inexplicable reason she was annoyed at him, though she hadn't told him. He just knew. It was probably down to sentiment he had deduced, though idly; He didn't particularly care.

Molly had been shaking her head erratically when he'd walked into the room. So naturally he had asked her what she was doing. And then she had looked up.

That look was on her face. The very one she had seen on his. The very look he had seen on his. The look of death. Only those who had seen death would really recognise it, and would allow it to resonate with them.

It made his heart stop for a moment.

It looked preposterous on her. Wrong.

Then he had really looked at her. She was pale, her eyes far too bright. Her hands were shaking, not ridiculously, but more than normal, suggesting anxiety.

But most conclusively was The Look.

Molly was grieving. Or dying.

He hoped it was grief.

She had then spoken, asking him what he wanted, her voice dull, and almost ethereal like.

Something was definitely wrong.

It had to be grief.

''Just use of the lab' he had answered carefully and went to sit down. Thoughts of going upstairs to the x ray machine were swept aside for a moment. He needed to get to the bottom of this. He watched her.

Her face looked conflicted.

And then she had asked where John was, not even blushing at the fact he was already staring at her.

'No, he's on a date' he had answered, bored by the topic. John had met a new woman recently, Mary, and had insisted on telling Sherlock everything he could about her; as if he wouldn't be able to know it all from one look. He had told John to shut up numerous times to no avail.

He didn't want to discuss it.

So he had asked her straight out. The curiosity was new to him, and he didn't relish it.

'Molly why have you got that look on your face?'

'W..what look?'

'That look.'

Oddly enough a look of disappointment and embarrassment crossed her face. Not the reaction he had been expecting. Curiously, her face darkened for a moment, a startling look of devastation etched on it. As quick as it had appeared, it was gone, replaced by a false smile, and false denials.

…...

It had played on his mind, distracting him.

Sherlock Holmes didn't get distracted.

He needed to nip this in the bud.

He went back to the hospital. She was there, paler than before, eyes rimmed red, masked by dark circles under her eyes. Nails were bitten down, a new habit. The look was still on her face. Yet a well placed mask covered her face now. Lipstick to cover the wound she had made by chewing on her lip, concealer on her eyes, blusher to add colour. She was hiding, as if in... denial.

Molly was dying.

The five stages of grief.

Denial.

Molly was soon going to realise she was dying.

Sherlock's mind went blank for a moment, and then suddenly raced.

His mind had already made a list of possible diagnosis'. Possibly heart disease, like her father. Maybe even cancer like her mother. It was potentially hereditary.

He needed to know. If Sherlock knew what he was dealing with, he would be able to find help more efficiently.

'Why are you scared?' he had asked her.

'Why didn't you tell em you were coming back?' she had retorted. The tone of her voice, the desperation, suggested Molly had mulled over this question a lot. And then she blanched, almost like herself, stuttering and blushing.

Her question didn't make sense. He had told her she counted. He hadn't want her implicated. Wasn't that obvious? She was a friend, in a respect. It was inconceivable that Molly couldn't have known that.

She was trying to distract him. Still firmly in denial.

Still. She needed to know.

He told her the truth.

'You count'

God he hated to be sentimental.

…

Molly had helped him back then. He would help her now.

'I'll return the favour when you're ready' he had promised her.

And then he left, feeling worse than when he arrived.

….

Anger

Sherlock had needed to check up on Molly. She was surely out of the denial stage, and would be emotionally fragile. Under the pretence of examining a body (an open and shut suicide, not that John knew that), he and John had gone to the hospital.

He had to admit to being a little surprised to see Molly in the middle of a glass strewn floor crying.

Definitely on anger.

'It just... It isn't fair' she had spat in a voice so unlike her own.

It was so unnatural, so unexpected, it gave Sherlock a slight shock. He had instinctively turned to her surprised.

And then she had started to cry.

Sherlock considered most forms of emotion as superfluous; it neither helped a situation, and was usually only a plea for attention. It was a trap he was far too clever for.

Yet as Molly leaned against John, distraught at the thought of her impending death, he felt curiously... uncomfortable.

John had looked so confused. His questioning would only serve to upset Molly further.

'Why don't you go get Molly a cup of tea?' Sherlock had said lightly. But John knew Sherlock never said anything lightly.

'Sherlock I don't think-'

Okay then maybe not.

'Milk, two sugars, right Molly' he had said to Molly, though he continued to eye John significantly.

_Let me take care of this._

John did leave, albeit reluctantly, his eye's narrowed in warning. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Molly was sitting wide eyed at this point, shaking sharply, panic etched in her face. He felt a foreign desire to comfort her; didn't people usually hug? Deciding it wasn't his style, he had just crouched down in front of her, making a point to share an eye line; he wanted her to feel comfortable.

How odd.

'Aneurysm, Dr Stamford said I have a cerebral aneurysm. And its big.'

Like the cab driver. Though that had seemed fair in a way.

This didn't.

It explained the lack of symptoms. Absolutely no hope of coming out unscathed then. Despite knowing this he couldn't help but ask 'No hope of surgery then'. He didn't have a doctorate. Maybe Stamford knew more than he did. Molly nodded sadly, the tears still sliding down her cheeks.

How unfortunate. And it really was. What a cruel way to die.

'A time bomb' he had said thoughtlessly., regretting his words instantly.

Molly had looked positively faint.

He tried to apologise.

'Forgive me for my tactlessness' – she didn't even seem to hear his words, so caught up in her thoughts she seemed; had he been like this? - 'I truly wish you didn't know how this feels.'

Sherlock rarely thought back to those few days he had been certain he would die. Thinking of them made him feel it all again, an echo of it distracting him. But more than that, in retrospect, he felt embarrassed. Embarrassed by how vulnerable he had been, losing control of his emotions. They had prevented him from thinking clearly, from finding the solution quicker.

He was embarrassed that for a little while there, Moriarty had won.

'How did it feel?' Molly had whispered softly.

He remembered the anger, the pain, the fear. The sheer exhaustion of it all.

He wished he could forget.

'Heavy'

God he was regretful that she had to felt this. Molly seemed far too fragile to have been put in this position.

She agreed.

'I am sorry Molly. Its not right' he had told her truthfully.

It didn't seem logical in a way. Molly had always appeared healthy; good breath rate, diet and attitude.

Not like him. Molly seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

'You put yourself in danger everyday' she said passively, though she blushed lightly.

How many drugs had he taken? How many guns had been pointed at him? The cigarettes too.

No. It didn't seem logical to him at all that Molly would be the one to die young.

'You're right'.

Molly would never understand the weight her next words had on Sherlock.

'Well I'm glad you live every time.'

There is a difference between knowing something, and having it confirmed to you. Sherlock knew Molly cared for him. She thought she loved him.

He had noticed that she had recently been attempting to move on from him; acting colder to him, avoiding places he would be. He had welcomed it. He did not need, nor want her infantile affections.

But hearing her words, knowing from that sentence how she thought of him, how she cared was surprisingly stunning. Moriarty had told him frequently how he would die, as had most of London's criminals. Even the good guys had hated him, as Anderson and Donovan had relayed to him on many occasions. Mrs Hudson was nice to him, if a little frustrated, but then again he did pay her rent. Mycroft and Sherlock rarely spoke civilly.

He knew John cared as he had showed him on rare occasions. He and John helped each other.

But he didn't help Molly. In fact he seemed to only burden her life. Their association had led Moriarty to target her, he had risked her career to stay alive, and he was sure some of his... observations had caused her more trauma than help.

And yet she had unswervingly still cared for him.

It was incredibly touching.

Really.

'Thank you' didn't seem enough, though he said it.

Her face changed a little, her usual love struck look returning, making him uncomfortable. And making him feel all too undeserving.

He was glad when John had returned with Stamford.

At least he had been until Stamford had gone into a panic; from the glass, crying Molly, and judging from his left brow, from guilt that he didn't foresee the fact Molly would need help.

Sherlock had to admit it was a large error on Stamford's part.

….

John's laptop seemed to be taking ages to load. In reality it was taking as much time as usual.

But he needed to conduct research.

His fingers drummed impatiently on the table.

Bargaining

He hadn't been able to sleep all night. An off hand comment from John had unsettled him. They had just solved a case; a world class Olympic runner had died, found hung. He had been social, wealthy and had had a huge argument with his trainer beforehand. Naturally the police has thought it was suspicious, and so Sherlock had set them to rights. As was obvious from his yellow nails, he was a secret smoker, who had recently started to take Champix, a new pill to stop people smoking. A little known side effect of the tablet was that it could induce depression in previous sufferers. One google search confirmed he had been a former sufferer. Case closed.

As John had been typing up the case on his pretentious blog, his face had looked slightly discomforted.

'Molly wouldn't commit suicide, would she?

It had been a thought that had crossed Sherlock's mind before. Somehow he didn't quite see it. Molly was far too sensible for that.

However, John even considering it a possibility unnerved him.

The next day he had gone to the hospital. Molly had been in the lab, reading, when he'd gone in. she was alive.

She looked fine.

The room looked fine.

Good.

He just walked back out.

…...

While his worries had been sated, John's had not. John had an appointment with his therapist again (When Sherlock had returned, John had insisted on still attending; Sherlock was sure John feared he would leave again, to Sherlock's annoyance). Sherlock had been complaining he had nothing to do, to which John had replied

'Why don't you go visit Molly then, check she is okay'.

_Make sure she's still alive._

It had seemed a good idea, and surely it wouldn't be too dull.

He had noticed the list as soon as he'd walked in; only Molly would write the words bucket list on the top of the page, and have underlined it. He also noted it was good to see her laugh, though he had no idea at what. Even if the final proof of her entering bargaining was so obvious. The emblem of it hanged on her neck. Religion. That meant she would soon be in depression. Then there would really be cause for John's concern.

It had been surprising.

'Tattoo?'

'Yeah, well you know'. No he didn't. -'I've always wanted one but I was too scared'

'Of what?'

'I...I was thinking a daisy'

She had misunderstood his question, though he found her answer more interesting that the one who would have received from his original question.

Molly was clearly sentimental. Why would she want a tattoo in memory of someone she didn't know? He would've asked, but Sherlock had the feeling it wouldn't be prudent to ask.

Well.

This would make the day more interesting. He had never seen a tattoo performed in practice, though he knew the theory.

'Well come on then'

Sherlock pulled out his phone, texting ahead to Damien, whom owed him a favour after a false accusation of fraud. Yes it had been six years since then, but the favour still stood. Damien replied instantly with a wary 'Ok.'

'W...wha? Come on where?' Molly had asked, stuttering in her usual way. It was rather comforting.

Because it was better than tears, reasoned Sherlock.

'To get your tattoo of course, do keep up Molly. And I thought today would be boring, John sent me by the way, he seems to think you'll kill yourself' and with that he left, Molly soon following. After prompting.

…...

She was scared. You didn't have to be a consultant detective to see that. Yet she had refused his offer of leaving. Her mother must have meant a lot to her, yet again, he couldn't fathom why.

'How do you miss someone you don't remember?'

She answered quickly.

'I do remember her. It's a bit vague, but I had chicken pox when I was five. I...i remember crying. And she was putting the cream on my spots with one hand, and using the other to play that slapping game, you know what I mean?'- she asked without really listening for an answer, too immersed in her memory. He nodded anyway. '-To stop me itching. Apparently I was besotted with her. I might not remember but feelings remember I suppose' finished Molly.

Her eyes were still faraway, which suited Sherlock as it gave him time to observe her without making her uncomfortable. He knew Molly was smart, though she often detracted from that with her far too emotive statements. However he had rarely thought her wise. Only once before, years ago when she had seen his face, the look, had he even considered her wise. But her finishing sentence conveyed wisdom beyond her years, and she didn't even know. His powers of deduction were often mistaken for telepathy (morons) but in this instant he wished he could just ransack her mind.

Why was Molly fine when only two weeks ago she had been so defeated?

'Is your'

'She's dead' immediately sensing Molly's thought pattern.

Far too emotional.

'I'm sorry'

'Why? It wasn't your fault'.

He hated that saying.

'N...no I mean, I'm sorry you were in pain.'

At that moment Damien came in the room, and Sherlock was glad, for it was a rarity in his life that he be lost for words, particularly by sentimentality.

It was after Damien had started that Sherlock finally regained a semblance of intelligence.

'You too' he said, grabbing her shaking hand instinctively.

….

Molly was glowing, unadulterated happiness on her face. Even he could see her allure in that moment. He knew Molly was aesthetically pleasing, but he wasn't effected by it usually. However in this moment he understood it; what made her attractive. She was so pure.

Not like him.

Her euphoria prevented her from seeing that her daisy was just slightly misshapen, unnoticeable to average people.

He chose not to point it out to her.

'Right, Harry Potter next?

'No!'

'Why ever not? It was on your list'

'Yes but-'

'Do you want to watch them?'

'Yes but'

'I don't understand' admitted Sherlock reluctantly. Unless...

'It's stupid'

It was, wasn't it

'Most things people say invariably are. Please.'

'I don't-'

'Your tattoo looks nice by the way.' he said, as a kind of leverage, for her confirmation. She sighed quietly.

'It's just...what will I live for if I finish the list? I'll just...d...die. You know.'

Bargaining. It was probably the most tragic of all the stages she had suffered. The welcome of delusion.

'It won't keep you alive Molly'.

And then he waited for it, and she didn't disappoint.

'You don't know everything!' she cried, as he shattered her delusion. The heartbreak in her eyes was uncomfortable to behold.

'I was insensitive, I apologise'.

It had been necessary for her to move onto the next stage. And then finally move on.

She would forgive him anyway.

'It's okay. It was stupid anyway'

'People believe stupid things when they're scared.'

She smiled at him, and he gave her the courtesy of one back.

…...

Sherlock had ordered the DVD's as soon as he had gotten home.

He had said he would help Molly, as she had helped him. Watching Harry Potter with her was one such way, he reasoned.

Sherlock was helping Molly because she had helped him. It was fair.

He didn't want her to forget that.

Recipient Molly Hooper

Sent at 11.47pm

John said you could borrow his Harry Potter dvd's if you want

Goodnight


	7. 4 to 5 Fine By Me Part Two

and next is the epilogue, enjoy, and much love to the reviewers, alerters, and anyone reading

update; some people cant access this chap and if anyone could let me know when they can that'd be great

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><p>Depression<p>

Molly hadn't been at the hospital when Sherlock next went, two days later. He knew it was neither her day off, nor on her lunch at the time. A small blonde woman was in her place, looking mightily annoyed to be so. Usually in oncology, just broke up with her girlfriend. He had asked the blonde woman where Molly was, only to receive a sharp glare and a 'Who are you?' in response. So he had gone to Mike, who had informed him that Molly had gone on leave, starting from today.

It had surprised him; Molly had been in good spirits when they had last left, he had made sure, so it seemed odd that she would have moved on to the fourth stage.

He vaguely wondered what had caused it.

Sherlock felt slightly put out oddly enough. However, from his research, he concluded it was right to give Molly a few days to think, though he did text her, just to receive a little insight into how far gone she was.

Wednesday 7th 11.12am

You've gone on leave.

She didn't reply and he didn't push it.

He had gone in the next day, on the off chance she had returned early. She hadn't. However he replacement was there, vomiting into a near by bin, with the open corpse of a forty five year old man (heart attack) nearby. And then, upon seeing him, she had proceeded to shout at him, informing him he needed a pass.

Sherlock had never needed a pass before.

Thursday 8th 1.23pm

Your replacement is completely incompetent.

Molly had replied to that, a simple 'Sorry' fifteen minutes later. Good. He was glad she was.

That night Sherlock wasn't surprised to find Mary in his flat. John had been hinting at it for days.

'It's so nice to meet you' she had gushed. She was blonde, obviously, with nondescript blue eyes. Too much foundation, though in the right shade for once. And she was a vet.

Oh lord.

'Of course you are' he had replied purposefully disinterested.

The rest of the evening hadn't gone much better, Mary had talked incessantly, while John looked on adoringly. He wasn't so sure he like this side of John.

Molly had the habit of talking incessantly, yet on her it seemed perfectly acceptable; a Molly mannerism. Mary just came across as unintelligible. He hadn't even replied to her 'Goodbye', he just gave her a curt nod.

John was clearly upset.

'What was that about?' he had asked, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

'John I have my limits-'

'You were bloody rude Sherlock!'

'I am the way I am John. Besides she wouldn't let me get a word in edge ways. A wondrous trick in itself.'

'Because of you! Why do you have to make everyone so nervous?' John had asked, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

Sherlock frowned.

'She needs to be less sensitive then'

'No, you need to be less intimidating Sherlock.' John had replied tiredly, before storming off to the kitchen.

Sherlock wasn't that bad was he?

The next day John had left early, leaving a note saying he'd be gone for the day, shopping.

Great(!) Now they were in a fight. He had probably gone straight to Mary's to make up for his 'rude' friend. Deciding it was too pathetic, and dull to stay indoors, he decided to go to the hospital, see if there had been any murders to distract him. It would also present a good opportunity to check if Molly was back, though it was a Friday.

By a stroke of luck the morgue was unmanned for the day; the blonde had clearly quit. Unfortunately it was a slow day and only two bodies were brought in through the duration of the day. One an elderly lady who had died from gangrene. The second was junkie, overdose. Boring. He had just spent the day researching various case studies in the lab.

Aneurysms.

Finally bored, and slightly hungry, he had made to leave when a woman had entered the room, her face searching. Therapist. Divorced. Mother. Her eyes had widened a little at Sherlock.

'Have you seen Dr Hooper?' she asked warily, yet an avid interest now in her eyes.

'No.'

'Oh.'

She had turned them, ready to leave, when something seemed to stop her. She had turned back to him shyly.

'I'm Dr Brand'

Sherlock had said nothing, just continued to put on his coat.

'I'm Molly's therapist'

Sherlock had stilled. He looked up at her again. Dr Brand. Now she looked familiar. Though far more tired.

'Can you tell Molly I'm looking for her.'

'Fine' Sherlock had said stoically, oddly uncomfortable at her gaze; it had far too much knowledge. Clearly Molly had mentioned him to her. He hadn't known how he felt about that. As soon as she

had left he had pulled out his phone to text Molly.

Friday 9th 9.43pm

Dr Brand is looking for you.

She didn't reply. She clearly wasn't attending therapy. It made him uneasy.

…...

John was still ignoring him the next day much to Sherlock's annoyance. However Sherlock had more pressing matters to deal with. He was going to check up on Molly, make sure she hadn't killed herself, or something as equally aggravating.

He hadn't been to Molly's flat before, though he had previously made a point to note it; for emergency's. Deciding not to startle her, he had rung her, and could hear it ringing, though she didn't answer. Something akin to dread had come over him. Pulling out an emergency bobby pin, he proceeded to unlock the door and step inside. It smelt stuffy.

He could hear her breathing.

He immediately relaxed a little.

She was in her bedroom.

Sherlock walked in nonchalantly, only to find Molly in bed, eyes closed, teeth biting her lip.

'Molly?'

She didn't acknowledge him, though she sighed, a slight smile on her lips. Molly delved deeper in the covers. She thought she was dreaming.

'Molly, this isn't a hallucination.'

Satisfyingly her eyes snapped open. Not so satisfyingly, they were red. Dark circles etched underneath them. In fact she looked awful.

'How did you get in?' she asked dully, not at all herself.

The fourth stage had hit hard. She began to sit up, and Sherlock was a little disturbed to note she wasn't wearing a bra under her t shirt.

'This is hardly Fort Knox, even if it does resemble it' he had said, desperately trying to sound calm, when really he felt anything but.

He truly looked over her then. Skin greasy, as was her hair, which he noticed had been cut much shorter. _She'd cut her hair without him._ Packets of food were on the food, none requiring cooking or nutrients. Her nails were still chewed down, and dirty. He moved to her face and noticed she was waiting. For him to finish. Molly truly wasn't herself. She usually look uncomfortable about his observations, and now she looked bored, though a flicker of something crossed her face when their eyes met.

'Dr Brand was looking for you last night.'

'Erm Sherlock' she said slightly sarcastically. He sounded crude on her.

'You cut your hair. That's one less thing off your bucket list'. Maybe she was moving on then; maybe she wasn't as bad as he had assumed. Even he could be wrong, on very rare occasions.

'S...Sherlock, I'm not well, could you please-'

'You're fine Molly, You're just-'

'Since when has dying been constituted as fine?' she spat out. Anything was better than apathy reasoned Sherlock, besides..

'You're not dying. You're just going to die' unfortunately he added.

'Same thing' she shrugged lethargically, not looking at him. Slowly her eyes filled with tears, and again Sherlock wished he was a mind reader.

'This stage is the hardest' he said stiltedly, attempting to console her. His words didn't seem to reach her as the tears spilled over her cheeks, face contorted in self pity.

'Molly crying won't help'

Molly was going to have a panic attack; he could tell the symptons.

'There's nothing worse than self pity Molly' he said exasperatedly, attempting to illicit some kind of reaction, a distraction. Her face immediately went blank.

Oh no. Not good.

She turned to him stunned.

He tried to take it back but she spoke before him.

'You really don't understand it do you?' she asked, voice thick with tears, heart break on her face.

'Mol-'

'You always say such thoughtless things' she said shaking her head in disbelief.

I am sorry, Sherlock attempted to say, but she interrupted him again, voice louder, angrier.

'You don't know how this feels!' she cried at him, her face looking oddly heartbroken. Sherlock was in turn stunned by it. Seeing bland Molly have intense emotions was both fascinating, and oddly discomforting. Like making a teacher cry when you were at school. As he had done. On several occasions.

Molly spoke again, determination and indignation in her voice. And sadness.

'I will pity me. Because no one else will' -false- 'I don't have any family left, or any friends. My mum died before I could even accomplish anything. I have a dead end job that's an embarrassment to even tell people. My first boyfriend dumped me two days after I gave him my virginity' – at this a strange mixture of anger and envy hit Sherlock – 'The next one left me. And I have spent the last five years in love with someone with someone who sees me as a resource, even when I risked my career for him' Sherlock listened, rapt, wishing he could refute it all, yet knowing he couldn't. It had been true. Before.- 'And now i'm going to die, with absolutely no one with me, and without doing half the things I wanted. So, Sherlock Holmes, I will pity me. Because I deserve to be pitied. I wasted years. And it hurts so much. God, I feel so, so guilty about it.' she finished, looking up at the ceiling taking a deep breath. She was crying steadily.

Sherlock felt not unlike a rabbit caught in head lights. He had always assumed to know Molly, but this had changed that completely. He didn't know her at all. He knew her habit yes, but he didn't know her life, her emotions, her reasoning's. He had used her, yet didn't know her. He felt oddly dirty.

She was more than that.

'You're life isn't-'

'Yes it is. What can I really do with an aneurysm? Anything could set it off. I can't really live. The second Dr Stamford told me I was dying, I really died. Cause I can't really live. I can't do anything. I can't really love anything. I can't have a baby or do anything I wanted. It's not feasible.'

Sherlock was still in a state of surprise, as if he was really seeing Molly, not the Molly he had decided based on nails or wrinkle placements.

'You know they love their mothers unconditionally? Babies I mean. I deserved that kind of love'

And she really did. Sherlock didn't particularly like children, but he knew she would've been a good mother. She was kind and smart and attractive. Perfect genetic material. A perfect person.

Sherlock gulped. Hard.

For an insane second he wondered what a child of their genetics would have looked like.

Oh lord.

'You don't get it. And I don't know why. It's never bothered me before. But it does now. Because anyone else would let me cry, let me scream. But you're dead inside' -No no no- 'and you know what? I pity you. I pity you!' she screamed at him. And she was right. Was this what John had meant when he called him intimidating? Was he not caustic as Sherlock had always thought? Was Sherlock in fact just dead inside. Molly thought so, and that bothered him.

He had used her. Had mocked her. Had under appreciated her. And now she needed him.

'I'm really sorry Molly'

'I know' was all she said.

And then slowly she leaned forward at him, Sherlock now realising he was sitting on her bed. She leaned on him. And within minutes she was asleep.

Hours later he placed her down on the bed, and left.

He needed to think. To be away from the source of his guilt.

Acceptance 

It was late when he finally returned home, and John was at Mary's. He had however left some cottage pie in the microwave for Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored it and sat down. He clasped his fingers tightly until they hurt. He needed to think.

He was now sure he liked Molly. And more than a resource.

The whole walk home he had been trying to identify this feeling he had had when holding her. And now he knew.

It was longing.

Not a sexual desire so resolutely, but a desire to see her happy, to take her pain away. To give her all she wanted, and more. He wanted to give her anything she wanted. Because she deserved it. She was everything The Woman wasn't; kind, warm, safe. The woman had been cunning, and together they would've been explosive, volatile. With Molly he'd be safe, content. She counteracted everything he was. John and Molly's words played on him. He didn't want either to think him cold; if anything he always felt more comfortable around them. They treated him like the prat he could be, and like the good person he could soon be. They didn't define him by his skills of deduction but by his actions, it was refreshing. And Molly, sweet, naïve Molly, had risked so much for him, and she was dying. And he hated it.

He opened the laptop silently and promptly began to print off everything in the folder named Molly.

…...

His first instinct was to run; caring was not an advantage as his dear brother had told him once. Sherlock was already feeling exhausted, and emotionally wrung.

He needed her out of his system, and he needed out of hers. She still had life yet. She shouldn't waste them on someone as cold, and as undeserving as him.

He knocked on the door, and listened to the unnatural stillness.

'Molly open the door' he called annoyed, ready to run.

He wanted this over with.

She opened it gingerly, her eyes apprehensive. Molly looked slightly less pale, and a bit more rested. She looked nice, he hatefully noted.

He thrust the research into her hands, not turning back when he heard them fall to the floor.

…..

He stormed up to the woman currently deciding between cheesecake or Victoria sponge cake. In the canteen queue.

'Dr Brand' he said authoritatively.

She turned, startled and tried to speak only to be cut off.

'You need to see Molly Hooper'

'I can't make her-'

'She's struggling. Make her.'

'How?'

'I don't care how, she needs to go to therapy again.'

Dr Brand's face suddenly turned shrewd.

'You really care'. Sherlock ignored that.

'Go to her home, she'll agree even if it's just to be polite'

And with that he walked back out.

…...

'I'm really sorry'

'Can we talk?'

'I hope you're okay?'

Her texts taunted him, but they were necessary. She needed to realise she was right.

…..

The doorbell rang. It was Molly. Sherlock pretended not to hear it. Unfortunately John didn't and let her in. Within minutes she was in front of him. It was both nice and horrible.

'Molly. I am busy so can you make this quick' he had asked, not looking at her.

'I...er... just wanted to apologize. About the other day. I am so sorry, I said mean things, untrue things-'

True things. Of course she would interpret her behaviour her behaviour as the bad one.

'You have the excuse of dying of dying Molly, besides' – he risked a glance at her face. She looked like Molly again. Lovely. - 'I have said my fair share of "mean" things'

'Yes but'

He couldn't listen to her defend her own behaviour and forgive his.

'I trust you are feeling better'

'I feel... a bit better I guess'

He breathed an internal sigh of relief. She was nearly at acceptance.

And one step closer to moving on from him.

A double edged sword.

'I... I had better g...go. See you later Sherlock'

Before he could censor himself he spoke out

'You just got here?'

'You're busy, I..I should-'

'Do you want a coffee' he asked, again before he could stop it. He wanted her near him. Around. He knew he shouldn't but she was just too comforting. He felt his plan, his resolve crumble at the smile on Molly's face.

'.Okay'

At that moment it occurred to Sherlock he didn't know how to make coffee. At least, not a competent one. But he needed her to stay.

'Could you make me one too?' he said with a smile he knew she liked.

She just laughed musically and he revelled in it.

…..

Thank you for the research

You're welcome

…...

What?

'Why isn't he reacting?' Sherlock asked angrily, impatiently. Had these films not just spent the last fifteen hours building these two men as friends, and now he wasn't saying anything. Sherlock had at least shed a tear at the thought of not seeing John, yet the ginger one wasn't reacting.

'Oh for Goodness sakes Sherlock! Shut up' cried John. Again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John and he were now as normal, after Sherlock had apologized gruffly to Mary. Not doing so wasn't worth the aggravation he would have surely received.

Sherlock had asked him to watch the marathon of these wizardry films with him and Molly. He hoped he would provide a deterrent from his emotions. They didn't. Sherlock had realised early on that if he took her food she would look at him. So he did it more often. And he knew John had noticed.

'But his best friend is about to die!'

'Yes, but he knows he has to be strong for Hermione'

What sentimental drivel. Sherlock snorted in indignation. He turned back to the screen. Harry was in a woods now... with his dead family...

'Oh now really'

Molly and John laughed together.

He didn't like it.

…..

'So. You like Molly eh?' asked John, in a smug tone.

'Of course, she's a friend.' Sherlock answered evasively. John was not deterred.

'No, I mean you like her... like her.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and just looked at John. John continued to smile.

'I think it's a good thing' said John sitting down.

'You do?'

'Of course. Molly's always like you, and she deserves a bit of happiness before...' John suddenly looked shocked and swivelled his head to Sherlock. 'You're not doing this just because-'

'No!'

John sighed in relief.

'Good. Good.'

'I'm not doing anything John' said Sherlock dryly.

'But you want to...'

Sherlock just walked out of the room, ignoring John's superior laugh.

…..

6.45pm Thursday 15th

From Molly Hooper

Would you like to go on a date with me?

Thursday 15th 6.46pm

From Sherlock Holmes.

Yes.

…...


	8. Epilogue Purple Rain

so this is the end of my first attempt at angst *sigh* this has been both emotional and aggravating to write. First I lost my entire first draft, then I lost my motivation but i am relatively pleased with how this has turned out. I had originally planned a very different ending, much darker, and while this is dark and sad, I listened to multiple reviewers who wanted some semblance of happiness for Molly. So I gave her what she wanted.

Also I will be back soon with a new story, though I want to finish it before I start posting it.

and finally thank you everyone who read, reviewed, and alerted. This is for you :)

* * *

><p><span>2014<span>

Is it better to have lost and loved than to have never loved at all? The old cliché. Previously I would have argued that no, it is not better. Is it really fair to know how greatness feels, to have it, and then lose it? To live your life knowing you will never feel that good again? Surely not knowing would be better than the pain of knowing?

2012

Okay this was awkward.

Molly was sat opposite Sherlock in a fancy restaurant, in the fancy part of London, and despite her repetitive fantasies of being in such a situation, the reality was a let down. Because she felt out of place. In her fantasies she was confident and interesting. Right now she was nibbling on a bread stick while Sherlock sat silently observing people.

This really wasn't her scene.

He seemed to know.

'Molly?'

'Yes Sherlock?'

'Do you want to go get a coffee and a Danish?'

she smiled brightly.

'Very much so'.

There were perks to dating a genius.

2014

Molly hated the colour black. She always said it was 'a bit depressing', though she made an exception for his black suits. She would like this suit then.

He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, and pocketed it, though not before checking the time. He didn't want to be late.

Walking into the living room he found John and Mary, both leant over a crying Tommy. He was in a mood. Like his father on occasion.

Ignoring them, Sherlock went over to the kettle, feeling John and Mary's eyes on him as he did so. He could practically see Mary nudging John to speak though Sherlock had his back turned. Finally John spoke.

'Morning Sherlock'

'Morning John. Mary.'

'Morning Sherlock' replied Mary kindly, only a little surprised to be addressed directly.

The room filled with awkward silence.

'I better change Tommy's nappy' said Mary quietly.

Sherlock just nodded. John gave an indulgent smile to his wife. As soon as she left it darkened.

'Are you okay?' asked John, voice fraught with concern.

Sherlock didn't answer.

2012

Three dates in and Sherlock still hadn't made a move. Yes, he always initiated the next date, but he had yet to kiss her much to Molly's disappointment. Didn't men usually go for a kiss on the first date?

Then again Sherlock wasn't a normal man.

Molly had to admit though that the dates had been spectacular. The first, while slightly out of place at first, had been lovely. Them just sitting in Hyde Park, coffees in hand, discussing anything and everything. Sherlock had even divulged details of his life to her, though small inconsequential ones. She revelled in them.

They discussed her parents, her education, and his cases and his tempestuous brother. It had been simply lovely.

The second date had been to a museum, in typical Sherlock style. They had mainly walked around while Sherlock informed her of the historical background of each display. She had even made a few points herself.

The third date had been incredible for it's normalcy. They had stayed in, watching East of Eden. She had mentioned in a very trivial way a few days earlier how she was a James Dean fan. Molly hadn't even known he was listening. A few nights later she had received a text telling her to go to Baker Street, which she did dutifully. The lights were off, except for the television. The food had been ready, Sherlock was sat waiting and everything had been perfect. But no kiss.

Molly decided to make a pre-emptive strike.

Sneaking out of work early (she was dying, no one cared) she made her way over to Baker Street. Yet as she went to knock on the door, it opened. Sherlock looked down at her with a frown.

'Molly?'

No time to back out now.

Swinging her arms up around his neck, he pulled him down to her face and kissed him. Hard.

At first he didn't respond. He just seemed to be limply attached to her.

And then slowly, cautiously, he began to kiss her back.

Molly retained a gasp. Sherlock hadn't really done this before. She could just tell from his kiss; not that it was bad, it was just unusually tentative. It was nice. More than nice.

Finally the desire to breath overrode her desire for Sherlock, and she pulled away, blushing furiously. Sherlock didn't move, though he blinked deliberately. Molly looked away at the wall behind him. And then she heard him laugh, a low baritone. She whirled her face back to his, to find him smiling.

'I was just going to find you Molly, but it seems you have beaten me to it.'

2014

Molly hadn't wanted a fuss so Sherlock hadn't booked a procession. Instead he, John, Mary and Tommy got a taxi to the church. The ride had been silent, aside from Mary's fathomless cooing of Tommy. Even the baby was dressed in black; a black jacket over his white romper suit.

Babies didn't suit black. He looked absurd. His blue eyes glittered brightly. No, he did not suit black.

The baby looked surreal. Sherlock felt surreal.

He had known this day would arrive. And soon. He had known since the day of the scan. Yet actually experiencing was odd. As if he had built it up in his head, and the reality was a let down.

It didn't seem profound enough to honour Molly.

It didn't feel like a natural end.

2012

Every now and then Molly's eyes would adopt a faraway look, where her thoughts consumed her. Sherlock distracted her often, but even he couldn't keep the thoughts at bay twenty four seven. Thoughts of the future, of time, of worry. During these moments, Sherlock always asked her what she was thinking. Molly knew he knew, though she never confirmed them. She would just smile, squeeze his hand, and say 'Nothing important'.

But it was.

Two months after their first date, Sherlock insisted on coming with her for her next CAT scan, out of curiosity. Not wanting to disappoint him, she had agreed.

Sherlock and Stamford stood in the room opposite watching Molly through a window, as the scan began to work. As Stamford gave Molly instructions, Sherlock said nothing. She couldn't see him either. Immediately fearing the worst, Molly had began to panic, her hands shaking, eyes filling with tears. What if it had increased?

'Everything seems as before Molly' had said Stamford finally, causing Molly to breathe a sigh of relief. No change was better than it getting larger. A feeling of pure euphoria had taken over then, and she had begun to laugh. She was fine for now. She pushed all her fears away.

However upon exiting the room, she found Sherlock, sitting, waiting. His face was as grave as ever, but his air was different. No longer an aura of superiority, it was one of worry. Sherlock was worried.

He didn't say anything at all until they returned to Baker Street.

'Molly-'

'I don't want to talk about it' she had cut in warily.

He looked at her then, an odd mixture of pity and discomfort on his face. She sighed.

'I'd rather not think about it. Thinking about it means waiting for it' she explained as she shrugged off her coat. Molly could feel his eyes as she did so, and in all honesty it made her sad. Because he wouldn't look at her the same now. The reality of it had hit him.

Suddenly she felt his hands on her shoulders, not affectionately, but to turn her around to face him. She met his gaze reluctantly.

He leant down to kiss her chastely on the cheek. His hands then slid down her arms to her hands, cradling them. Molly jolted a little, and looked at him in surprise. His eyes looked back at her, worried and excited.

She understood immediately. Sherlock might not be a normal man, but he had their tendencies.

She felt nervous. And then excited.

And with a slow nod, Sherlock led her to the bedroom.

2014

The church pews were sparse. Molly didn't have any family left, only the odd relative here and there, and she had only a handful of friends. Molly was the type of person who had few friends, but relished them, unlike others who have many friends, yet only have shallow relationships with them. She was a natural carer, though she would've refuted it. She had never seen herself clearly; how beautiful she was, how kind she was, how endearing she was. She had seen herself as annoying, pathetic, an opinion Sherlock had always tried to knock out of her.

The small gathering annoyed Sherlock really. Molly had always been so kind, yet so few appreciated it. It made him ashamed he had once been among those hoards. He glared at the crowd angrily. They had all treated her appallingly. None of them really deserved to be here.

'Sherlock? I need to talk to the reverend, could you hold Tommy?' asked Mary, looking at him expectantly. John's eyes widened in apprehension.

Sherlock turned slowly to Mary, and nodded once curtly, ignoring the fact that her eyes were darting quickly in worry, and that John was unconsciously holding his breath. Sherlock reached for the baby, gingerly placing him in the crook of his neck.

Mary beamed reassuringly at Sherlock, and pulled John by his arm to the reverend.

The hall was loud, as people spoke, swapping stories. Sherlock looked down, blocking them and their falsities out.

Tommy looked back at him.

Sherlock sighed sadly, and stared back at his vibrant alert eyes.

His spirit. Molly's eyes.

2013

'Molly see reason!'

'N..no Sherlock, you see reason. This is my only chance'

'It could kill you, you stupid girl!'

'And it would kill me more to not go through with it'

'Well I'm glad you're so nonchalant about this! Did you even think to ask me my opinion?' yelled Sherlock angrily, clenching his fists.

'I didn't plan this Sherlock! If you don't want any part-'

'Of course I do! But I'd rather have you alive and well-'

'And sad. If I have an abortion, I'll be alive and well and sad.'

'But you'll be alive'

'I want this Sherlock-'

'And if you die?'

'I trust you to bring up our child'

Sherlock snorted at this.

'You'd be the only one'

Molly smiled sadly at this.

'I know you, you'd be a good father'

Sherlock rolled his eyed.

'If that's what you want to believe-'

'I believe it because it's true.'

The room went silent again. Sherlock flopped into a nearby chair, and held his head in his hands. Why couldn't he understand?

'I don't want you to die Molly', making Molly laugh humourlessly.

'Me neither Sherlock. But what if, for once, something good happens? What if I don't die, and we have a family?'

'I..'

'A little Christopher'

At this Sherlock looked up at her, his eyebrow risen quizzically.

'it's a boy? Christopher?'

'After my dad. And I think it is.' she explained.

'Oh. I dislike children being named after others. It takes away any personality' he said carelessly, though Molly smiled.

'What about Thomas?'

'Thomas Christopher?' Molly asked tentatively, repressing a smile. She had won, he knew it, she knew it. He gave a quick side smile.

'Thomas Christopher Hooper Holmes.'

2014

Sherlock ignored their side glances, keeping his gaze fixed on Tommy, as Molly had affectionately nicknamed him.

He was only eight months old, but his eyes seemed to sparkle with some kind of intelligence. Sherlock wondered if he understood any aspect of what was happening. Did he wonder where the pretty woman had gone? Did he miss her presence? Doubtful, though Sherlock liked to think he did.

Now all Tommy had left was him. Molly had been gone two weeks, and he had already let her down. But looking at Tommy, his eyes, hurt in a genuine way.

Sherlock vowed then and there to get over it.

It wasn't Thomas' fault. Molly would be livid if she thought Thomas was unhappy or unloved. And he wouldn't be.

In the background the organ began to play a sombre tune, but Sherlock paid it no mind, so enraptured in his son he was. He sat down in a nearby pew, and gingerly rocked his son as the reverend spoke. He heard nothing. And then, unexpectedly everyone turned to face Sherlock sadly.

Oh. He needed to make a speech.

He got up gently so as not to bristle Tommy, and made his way to the front of the church.

2014

Every now and then Sherlock liked to just look at Molly. As if catching her unaware would help him deduce her any further. Right now she was sat on the sofa, feeding Tommy, a look of pure happiness on her face.

Molly had undergone a caesarean. Mike had assumed it would be easier and less stressful. Her blood pressure had been monitored rigorously throughout the pregnancy, and eventually the frown that appeared on Stamford's face every time she entered a room had became more hopeful. She was put on all kinds of medication and had even taken up yoga; everything to ensure she remained calm. Everything was choreographed in great detail. Yet throughout Sherlock had felt oddly separated from her, he couldn't rejoice or be excited with her. Because he was a realist. He had assumed she would die.

He had never been happier to be wrong. She had survived, and so had their baby. Molly was so much more stronger than he had given her credit for. She must have known that all along. Sherlock had resented the baby a little when Molly was pregnant; taking her attention, her body, and maybe even her life. Yet the moment he looked down at the bloody bundle on Molly's bosom, it was like being caught in a trap. An overwhelming sense of happiness had enveloped him, not unlike the one he felt when with Molly.

Molly had been right all along.

Feeling his gaze, she looked up at him, smiling brightly. A real smile. A smile without fear, without worry. Just pure bliss. It made her look beautiful.

'He was worth it' Molly had whispered after the birth, as Thomas slept in the cot next to the hospital bed.

'Yes.' Sherlock answered simply. Her face had darkened a little then.

'Sherlock. When it happens make sure he knows he was worth it'

'I will.'

2014

Thomas had been asleep, and Molly was making coffee. Sherlock had been at the table, pouring over his newest case; the death of an elderly heiress. It was her butler.

He'd heard the cup hit the ground before she did.

She hadn't died immediately. The aneurysm had burst quickly, the blood spreading, damaging. She had gone into a coma. The damage was irreparable the doctors had said; she would've had brain damage definitely.

She had hung on for three weeks before dying in the middle of the night, her body giving up.

Hanging around long enough to make sure Sherlock and Tommy would be fine.

2014

Sherlock gave Tommy a gentle kiss on his forehead, before handing him to Mary. He felt everyone looking at him, and he sighed quietly. He faced the crowd and began.

'It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved Molly at all...' he began.


End file.
